


I know you can hear me

by foxtrot77



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, M/M, Rated teen for language, season 15 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 14:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11187489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77
Summary: It’s around the time Caboose says, “You talk about Grif a lot” that Simmons realizes what he’s been in denial about for days. Why that hollow feeling hasn’t gone away.He’s made a huge mistake.





	I know you can hear me

**Author's Note:**

> For the RvB Angst War. Season 15 Spoilers up through Episode 10 (But only the beginning of that episode)!!!

It’s around the time Caboose says, “You talk about Grif a lot” that Simmons realizes what he’s been in denial about for days. Why that hollow feeling hasn’t gone away.

He’s made a huge mistake.

When he sees the way Tucker and Agent Washington grin at each other like idiots when they pick up the Freelancers on the beach, Simmons realizes he has to go back.

“Drop me off at the moon,” he demands. Or, he wishes it sounded demanding. It comes out more like, “Drop me off, uh, at…  at the moon?”

“What?” Agent Washington is the first to speak.

Sarge narrows his eyes and Carolina crosses her arms. Tucker tilts his head to the side. Temple looks over his shoulder from where he sits with Loco in the cockpit, and it feels like the only person who isn’t looking at him is Caboose.

“You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me,” Tucker says, letting out a short laugh.

“No, I’m not kidding,” Simmons says. “I would appreciate it if you dropped me off at the moon.” Simmons hesitates before adding, “Please?”

“And fraternize with that no good, lazy traitor?” Sarge snaps. “Why, the very _idea_ makes my blood boil!”

“Yeah, dude,” Tucker adds, “Grif quit. He’s an asshole. Why go back?”

 _Because I never should have left_. Is what Simmons doesn’t say.

“I just… I need to go back, for, uh, my Dungeons and Dragons books. I forgot them,” is what Simmons says instead.

It’s a lame excuse. He knows it, and everyone else knows it.

“Uh huh… Look, Simmons,” Tucker says, “I know your… nerd shit is important to you, but it’s too risky to go back. _And_ it’s out of our way.”

Simmons’s gut twists at _too risky_. He remembers what Temple said about the UNSC bombing the fuck out of Freelancers, wonders if they bombed the moon, then shoves the idea from his head because his anxiety is already through the roof.

“I’m afraid I’m with Captain Tucker on this one,” Temple calls. “We don’t know if it’s safe to go back.”

“We don’t know if it’s safe with _you_!” Simmons points out, regretting it instantly. He tries to backtrack, “I mean, safe. Uh, at the base. Not that we’re not safe with you, just maybe… at the base. It’s underwater.”

Temple gives a start like he’s hurt. He frowns and his eyebrows knit together, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Hmm,” Sarge growls. He fidgets with his shotgun before turning to look out the window. “If you ask me, this is a perfect opportunity for some reconnaissance, to see what the enemy is up to! And for killing Grif. Who also happens to be the enemy!”

“What?” Tucker swings around to look at Sarge. “Reconnaissance? For what? To see how many packages of Oreos that fat ass has eaten? To see what a moon blown to shit looks like? No fucking way.”

It hits Simmons then that Tucker misses Grif too. Feels betrayed too. He also tries not to pay too much attention to the words _blown to shit._

“Well, if it turns out the moon is… has been bombed, or whatever, we don’t have to stop,” Simmons reasons. “Then we can just go back to the, uh, underwater base.”

Simmons notices neither Carolina nor Agent Washington has said anything. They keep doing that thing where they give each other pointed looks, though, and Simmons thinks maybe, just maybe, they’ll let him do this.

“Yeah I have to go to the bathroom,” Caboose chimes in. “When is the next gas station?”

Tucker and Agent Washington exchange a look of what appears to be sheer panic.

“The moon it is,” Agent Washington says.

**

Simmons steps off the ship as Caboose clambers back on, then watches it leave. When it’s nothing but a black speck in the sky, he keeps watching. And when it’s no longer visible, Simmons watches a bit longer.

His mechanical heart is flipping its shit, and Simmons feels ready to overheat.

_Breathe in, breathe out. In. Out. Just go in and apologize. Make this right._

Simmons closes his eyes for a second and tries not to think about it. It’s no big deal. Definitely not the single-most terrifying thing he’s ever done.

_Fighting the Meta, taking down Hargrove—fucking cake._

“Shut _up,_ Simmons,” he mumbles to himself.

Simmons shakes his head, opens his eyes, and takes one more deep breath before turning towards Red Base.

“Just start walking,” he tells himself. “One foot in front of the other…”

With the speed to rival a sloth, Simmons makes his way to the base they haphazardly plastered together after Donut burned down the other ones.

Simmons would laugh at the memory but he’s too busy concentrating on not hyperventilating.

 _It really is beautiful here_ , he thinks.

The sun has begun to set, casting an orange glow on the surrounding landscape. A soft breeze ruffles the grass, and when he focuses on the crashing of waves on the cliffs he feels his breath slow to synch up with the sound. As he crests the hill right before reaching the base he notices the Warthog Sarge crashed is still there, another casualty in the war against gravity.

There’s no sign of Grif as Simmons approaches. No radio playing, no makeshift hammock surrounded by empty cans and dirty dishes, nothing.

Simmons stops in front of the entrance and stares at the opening.

“Fuck me,” Simmons breathes.

For a second he stands there, frozen. He’s starting to sweat, his heart’s whirring in his chest again, and his feet are screaming at him to run the other way.

 _Don’t be such a baby,_ he scolds himself. _Move, dammit_!

On the other side, there is only darkness to greet him, and he adjusts his grip on his rifle before sticking his head inside.

“Grif?” He squeaks. Tries again, louder this time, “ _Grif?_ ”

Silence.

 _Lazy ass is probably just sleeping_.

Taking a deep breath, Simmons takes a step inside the base.

It looks exactly the same as the day they left, only darker. Dustier. Simmons makes his way to the kitchen first, dreading the pile of dishes that surely waits for him.

“Grif?” he calls out as he walks into the kitchen. There’s no answer.

The dirty dishes in the sink are from weeks ago.

Simmons knows because he’s the one who put them there, to be washed, before Miss Andrews showed up.

_Doesn’t mean anything. His dishes are probably just upstairs, or outside, or something._

“Yeah,” Simmons whispers and nods to himself.

He opens the fridge. Cringing, he’s thankful for the filtration unit in his helmet. Almost everything in the fridge has begun to mold, and it probably smells godawful. Those meals Simmons made weeks ago, the last half of Grif’s pizza, a sticky pink pool where one of Sarge’s strawberry YooHoos broke open and spilled all over the top shelf.

Simmons stumbles back from the fridge and sprints from the kitchen.

_Grif’s got a snack stash, so he probably just hasn’t left his room._

Simmons makes a mad dash for Grif’s bunk. He bursts in, only to immediately trip on a pile of dirty laundry. Landing face-first in the worst mess of all time, Simmons waits for (prays for) the insult he’s sure is coming.

But no one says anything.

Simmons flips onto his back. Stares at the ceiling—how did Grif manage to get _that_ stuck up _there_?—Simmons takes in the room around him.

Clothes, bags of trash, wadded up paper, and other trash Simmons can’t quite make out in the darkness have taken over the room. Simmons wonders how Grif can live like this, then, seeing his spare glasses and pajama shirt laying on the edge of Grif’s cluttered desk, remembers he lived here too.

Remembers he stopped caring about the mess, as long as it meant he was in the same room, the same bed, with Grif.

The bed.

“Grif?” Simmons asks the mountain of blankets. It doesn’t respond.

Simmons unearths himself and moves to turn on the light. Then he removes his helmet and glares at the blankets again. Looks for telltale signs of breathing.

There aren’t any. Not even his mechanical eye picks up signs of life.

“Grif?” Simmons marches over to the bed anyway. “Come on, fat ass, I know you can hear me!”

He rips the blankets away and is met with an empty mattress. No Grif.

Simmons drops his helmet to the floor. He thinks his rifle was lost somewhere among the heaps of garbage, but he doesn’t care.

For the next hour, Simmons moves from room to room. He even checks Sarge’s room, ducking to avoid the shotgun rigged to fire when the door opens (“You just got Sarged, hehe” the gun quips). After avoiding the bullet, he leaves, knowing Grif wouldn’t take the time to reset the trap if he were in there.

Carolina’s room is practically empty, save for her mattress and a tattered upside-down photo on her desk. Simmons resists the urge to look at the photo and backs out of her room.

His own bunk is just how he left it—spotless. The only difference now was the thin layer of dust covering everything. Simmons plops onto his bed and lets out a sneeze as a cloud of dust flies up into his face.

 _Where the fuck_ are _you, Grif?_

He shucks his armor and finds his pair of hiking boots underneath his bed. A little voice in his head warns him against taking his armor off in a potentially hostile environment, but he ignores it. If the UNSC decides to bomb the moon, there’s not much his power armor can do for him anyway.

Simmons moves on to Blue Base. Grif’s ukulele is still there. Untouched and—Simmons plucks one of the strings—out of tune.

“Grif?”

Then he searches the clearing where Grif taught Carolina how to relax. Attempted anyway.

“Grif?”

He’s moving faster now, tripping over his own feet as he makes his way to Grif’s cave.

_He’s got to be there. Fat ass doesn’t think I know where his secret napping place is, but think again…_

Peering inside the opening in the rocks, Simmons regrets leaving his helmet at Red Base. It has night vision, and now he’s going to have to rely on his mechanical eye.

Half-blind and half-panicked, Simmons enters the cave.

“Grif?” he calls out. The only reply gets is from his echo as it bounces off the cave walls. He can hear water dripping somewhere in the far-left corner, he can hear the thud of his footsteps on the stone, and he can hear his ragged breathing as he moves further into the darkness.

But he doesn’t hear Grif.

Simmons backs out of the cave.

When he emerges, the sun has almost set, a small golden sliver peaking over the horizon.

“GRIF!” he shouts one last time.

The waves _whoosh_ in response, and Simmons lowers himself to the grass and watches the last of the sun disappear as the moon goes to sleep.

When he finally moves it’s because he’s shivering. Without the warmth from the sun, it’s freezing. Arms wrapped around his torso, he shuffles back to Red Base.

_Right foot left foot right foot left_

Simmons stumbles past his own room and finds himself outside Grif’s bunk. Wading through the ocean of garbage and filthy laundry, Simmons scoops up the blankets he ripped off the bed. It feels like years since he was in here.

Flopping onto the bed, boots and all, Simmons wraps himself in Grif’s old blankets. They smell like him. He can’t seem to get warm.

Simmons closes his eyes and tries not to think about the hole in the bed next to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Original Prompt from riathedreamer on Tumblr: "Simmons returns to the moon to find it empty"
> 
> I may return for edits later. In fact, I am taking down a couple chapters for now while I decide where I want to go with this fic, if I want to continue it at all. In other words, I have no idea what's gonna happen here! xD


End file.
